


to die, to sleep

by otheraeon (RCWAK)



Category: Hollow Knight (Video Games), Homestuck
Genre: (i guess???), Gen, Godstuck, Snippets, aradia as some kind of butterfly death goddess, please do not expect this to go anywhere i don't know what i'm doing, wildly self-indulgent nonsense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:35:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25998376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RCWAK/pseuds/otheraeon
Summary: Stories of other gods, in a broad sort of miscellany.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 43





	1. to sleep, perchance to dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A butterfly goddess, faded with age, speaks to a little shadow.

The butterfly ghost -- no, not a ghost exactly, something like a higher being, with the power humming through her form -- turns to them with a broad, simple smile, and leans in like she's telling them a secret. "One day, you're going to die."

They start to pull away, but she continues, unperturbed, still smiling. "The fungus and the bottom-feeders will eat your flesh and leave your shell scattered on the ground, and it will be beautiful." Her compound eyes are far away and full of a strange ecstasy they can't pin down. They aren't sure if they're being threatened, or confided in, but whatever she's doing, she isn't done. 

"And I will find the pieces and build you a cairn to mark your grave, and someday even that will be worn away by the water and the wind, ground down into dust, and we will both be forgotten, and dead in all the ways that matter. And there will be nothing left of us, and the world will fade and die, and at long last we will finally lie both at rest." She pauses, as if thinking for a moment. "And that will be beautiful, too."

How... how are they supposed to respond to that? They nod blandly, and fidget with the dream nail, waiting to see if the maybe-Higher-Being has anything else to say. She remains for a while undisturbed, before the movement seems to catch her attention.

"Oh! I see you've found that old artefact the moths used to use." She nods approvingly. "They were some of the closest to figuring it out, how the end after life worked. They understood what it was to dream, and to die, and dream beyond death itself. A dream outlasting the dreamer, and sustaining itself through immortal slumber. They even understood the importance of letting it all decay after, and putting it to rest -- most mortals have trouble with the idea, you know. Time is too short for them to really understand what it's like, to see a final death as the proper peace it is. They don't get enough of their tiny lives, so they seek to persist beyond them instead."

The butterfly flicks her antennae in a meandering, absent-minded pattern. "And here I remain, still waiting. I've got plenty of time left, unfortunately. You could just about say I'm made of it."

They do not really understand, not completely, but they cannot help but remember the whispering abyssal sea, and the soothing call of the void. It promised rest, the end, a peaceful place to succumb to nothing. Is that the end she seeks, they wonder?

"Yes," she says, as if they have asked her aloud. "One day. But today won't be it, I'm afraid. Too much left to do. Speaking of which--" and here she grins at them a little wider, more predator than prey, and adds, "I've got something _very important_ to ask of you."


	2. arachne's sin was arrogance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> why am i still writing this

The spider's daughter is a bitter creature. Venomous and light-tangled, the Weavers have little love for her, disinterested by her feuding with her sister and the butterfly maiden. They blaze and burn together, claw in claw, fangs sunk into each other's necks, and the quarrel of godlings is no place for mortals to linger. A disfigured creature, iron-armed and less more eyes than her mortal kin might ever possess. And she is Light, unwelcome in the depths of beasts and crawling things, and so she struggles her way out and remakes herself.

There are so many gods that call themselves Light. They pick separate domains, as such creatures must, for to remain in close quarters invites a struggle of power and territory regardless of the particulars of their shared nature, and there is only so much room for so much light.

The pale wyrm has his glow, cold as the moon, strange and false; the moth-goddess has her glorious crown of sunfire and dawn. The lady, locked away, has her peculiar luminescence of a living things, a little strange but unmistakably divine. And the spider's daughter, far away from them all, has the glimmer of gold, the flash of a coin in spun air, the glint of a strung web-trap in sunlight, and the gleam of blades and clattering dice.

She is the treasure-keeper, the gambler, lady-luck and thief-queen and wandering star. She is winged and skittering and never quite fits, and she fights and makes a name for herself like a mortal, until she can be sure that her face and form and name will never be unknown again. A god requires worship, requires _knowing --_ what's a little infamy, if her name is still on the tongue of every bug who hears it?

And what a shame, that her old enemy has come to challenge her again. To rein her in or to call her back, she does not know.

She's in the arena, a great big open structure at the crown of a kingdom she doesn't care enough to remember the name of -- built on bloodsport and battle, and she has cut the path for herself to the top through the bodies of too many bugs to count. Her lopsided face and mismatched anatomy have attracted curious stares, and she revels in it, undaunted. It's half the reason she's never tried to heal herself. Memorability is key to leaving her mark.

The wyrm's child, her lost sister, enters the arena from the far side. A long, torn strip of red fabric hides her eyes, and the thief knows underneath they're just as bright as the day she burned them out.

"Thief."

The spider's daughter shifts, leaning on her bad side, eyes trained on her opponent. "Wow, what, no first name basis? Way to come off as cold, sis."

Through gritted teeth: " _Vriska_."

"I think it's about to be _champion_ , actually." She glances up at the audience around them for a second, gauging the crowd's reactions. Banter usually pays off, if it's witty enough. And if it isn't, they'll forget before long. Mortal bugs have such short memories.

"Vriska, what the hell are you doing here? I've been looking for you."

And there it goes. The crowd seems to be paying attention, though. Maybe she'll try this angle. It might be worth her while.

There are always champions coming through this place, she's seen. They're ground up and juiced for entertainment, then spit out like used gum the moment they lose their flavor. If she wants to be remembered here...

"Really? The little wyrmling wants me back? After all this time?" Her mockery fills the arena, bright and clear. "Let me guess: you all couldn't function without me, just like I said you would, and you're just finally admitting it."

"That's not what--" she cuts herself off, already so ready to rise to the bait. She's so much more composed, normally. "There's something we need to talk about."

"Hmm." The thief pretends to consider it for a moment. All their eyes are on her. (She could take them all, she could _make_ them watch, but that wouldn't be the same at all. More fun, to actually draw them in. Not that she's ever been above cheating.)

"Vriska."

Her broken face splits wide into a grin. "Yeah, yeah. I'll think about it. But if you want your talk, you're only getting it one way."

Her sister puts her claws to her face, and for a second, the thief wonders if she's going to rip off that blindfold and play along, like when they were young. But instead, she sighs, and draws her blade from the cane she carries. "I know."

The thief feels the hum of fate and thread and fortune around her, and though she's no seer, she knows in an instant that this kingdom will be speaking her name for centuries.


	3. hadopelagic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The daughter of the depths receives an unusual visitor.

It has been such a long time since the witch of the deep-waters last had visitors.

The dark she calls home, embraced and surrounded by the pearly gleam of her mother's many limbs, couldn't exactly be called welcoming. Between the crushing force of the water above and the many maws waiting below, the most she sees in an age are priestesses, making their pilgrimages to the shrine she keeps for them, laying their offerings and begging the daughter of the depths for her mother's blessings. She is kind to them, and aids them as she can, but they are hardly company, least of all for long. And she cannot leave -- for who, then, would tend to the shrine and to Mother?

She has not seen a visitor of the small one's like in a long, long time. Ever, in fact. The pale mask they wear is of an unfamiliar custom, instantly intriguing, and their cloak, which drifts every which way in the water, suggests the make of a foreign land. They have tied themself to a bulging sack of stones so heavy they must drag it along the coral paving, as if too buoyant to reach the seafloor without the weight.

Her curiosity swells and breaks the surface, and she approaches with a gleam in her eyes entirely apart from the sunlight that cannot reach this place. The little visitor appears unimpeded by the dark, and when she swims closer, she notices the spill of shadow like squid-ink that blurs the waters around their hollow eyes.

"Hello, little wanderer," she says. "Are you here on a pilgrimage?"

Not all visitors come with purpose, but the way the rocks anchor them to the sacred grounds seems too careful to be anything but deliberate, and hospitality is hospitality. The usual rites may as well be observed.

The little visitor does not answer her in words, but instead looks up in her direction with a start. Perhaps they cannot see in the murky midnight of the depths after all? They must be a brave soul, then, or foolish. Her surroundings are no place for the unaware, though they at least carry a nail on their back. She waits patiently a moment as they turn their head, searching, before she takes pity and swims closer still until their gaze can fix upon her.

They go very still for a second, sizing her up, then bounce in place, once, precisely. She watches them fumble about under their tangled cloak before withdrawing a flat stone etched in a script she hasn't read in centuries. The little visitor hands it over with both hands, which is a refreshing change of pace from the ritual shrine offerings.

She accepts it, and reads.

* * *

hi feferi!

some stuff happened on the surface so i thought you should know! whatever happened in that mountain kingdom finally cleared up, and we might even be able to find the void now if we dig deep enough.

i asked this little abyss creature from the kingdom's ruins to give you the message, and they'll probably take one back if you ask. they're really helpful like that. you should probably thank them!

rsvp?

-aa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have no idea what i'm doing. this may never go anywhere. please have mercy.


End file.
